


Dirty Politics

by Saziikins



Series: Dirty Politics [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Past Infidelity, Politics, Rimming, age gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4277970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg wants to run a clean campaign as he stands to be the next Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. But then there's Sherlock Holmes, that irritating intern who Greg knows will be nothing but trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Politics

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write this for ages, ever since someone prompted me with the politics AU on Omegle. I finally sat down to write this today. This is the first of two parts. 
> 
> For anyone not familiar with British politics... there are more than two parties who run in a General Election.  
> Purdah is the six week pre-election period (which ends when the election result is called) where no one is allowed to announce any major initiatives which could be advantageous in the election.  
> There is one MP to every constituency, and the UK is split into 650 of them. Safe seats are ones which generally don't change from one party to another. In this, I suspect Greg's got himself a fairly safe seat somewhere. 
> 
> Greg is the leader of the opposition. I haven't defined which political party it is, although given his position, it would either be the Conservatives or Labour. Greg doesn't strike me as a Tory, so he's almost certainly Labour, though I haven't mentioned any parties in the fic. 
> 
> There is a 14 year old age gap between Greg and Sherlock. Greg is 35, Sherlock is 21. 
> 
> And I openly admit - everything I know about political campaigns I learned from The West Wing.

He knows he will never forget the first time he saw him. Even when he is older and greyer, he will always remember the sight of him, barely old enough to be able to order alcohol in America, curly black hair wild on the top of his head. He was all limbs, gesturing, irate, telling everyone how they were ‘wrong, wrong, wrong’.

“What the hell is going on?” Greg snapped as he went past the hotel room, set up as the hub for their campaign. He could just make out the kid, banging his fist down on a desk.

“Annoying intern,” Sally informed him. “He’ll lose his job in a day, don’t worry about it.”

He hadn’t though, had he? Somehow, three days later, he was still snapping and sniping at Greg’s staff, informing them where they were going wrong. Like a caged animal, wild and furious. But one they couldn’t let escape for fear it would bring only chaos wherever it went.

Mostly Greg was able to ignore the internal politics of his team since Sally had a good grip on proceedings most of the time. They had three interns who travelled with them usually. They would put up posters and answer the phones and put videos on YouTube and add messages to the Facebook page and the Twitter account Greg never actually looked at.

But this one didn’t do any of these things.

“His brother’s a donor,” Sally explained as they sat at the back of the official party bus, reviewing the schedule for the next week.

“A donor.”

“A big one.”

“Right,” Greg muttered. “Fine. I get it. His brother’s big and important and he wants to give his little brother a leg up. But does he actually have to be _here_? We’re a week into the campaign and already I’ve got Anderson telling me he’s being undermined and Dimmock is raging like a bull on heat.”

“I’ll sort something out.”

“You better,” Greg told her. “Because right now, no one’s concentrating on the campaign. They’re just focused on bloody… what’s his name anyway?”

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Greg repeated. “Just find him something else to do, will you?”

And Sally did. And Sherlock Holmes disappeared for three glorious days.

Their party stood for reforming the NHS. For improving education. For sorting out the economy. And they were campaigning with a simple message: Fresh start.

Greg had only been elected party leader seven weeks before the campaign had officially launched. His rise in politics had been swift and unprecedented.

For his first five years as a Member of Parliament, he hadn’t toed the party line. And he was despised for it. He was the party’s black sheep, at just 30 years old, causing trouble everywhere. In turn, he was the media’s darling. He would leak stories and be offered interviews in return. They all painted him in a positive light.

Straight-talking, they called him. Honest. Friendly. Passionate. Smart.

And then the party had lost the election in its biggest defeat in more than 30 years. Greg kept his seat with a larger majority than five years previously - one of few who did better than expected.

Within two days, he became the new Shadow Minister for Education. Two years later, it was Shadow Minister for Health. He was no longer the black sheep. He was the person who had been right from the start. The only person who had pointed out the party’s weaknesses and shown they were targeting the issues in the wrong way.

He was hoping for a third term in Parliament, expecting to be re-elected, and expecting that maybe in the future he could get himself a top role. Secretary of State would have been good.

He was 35. Riding high in the opinion polls in his constituency, waiting for purdah to finally start so he could go out there and secure the votes for himself and the rest of his party.

And then the leader resigned. Lady Smallwood, the party’s most well-liked and respected leader for a generation. Gone, after the newspapers revealed her husband had an affair with a 17 year old.

Then Greg was voted in as the new leader, faster than he could blink. Suddenly he was in charge of a party in an uncertain election. So he hit the refresh button.

“We’re working for a fresh start for this country,” he declared at the emergency party conference in Brighton. “We’re not accepting mediocrity anymore. We don’t just go into the House Of Commons to argue that the opposition is wrong. We tell ‘em why they’re wrong and then we do it better.” The crowd cheered. “We need to get the economy moving again. We need more nurses, more doctors, more teachers. And we’re going to do it. Staff are working through the night to draft a new fully-costed manifesto in time for this election. It’s a new start for this party. A new start for this country.”

He had been working with Sally Donovan for four years, and she was immediately given the job as his campaign manager. She was dependable. Dedicated. Anderson wrote the speeches and Dimmock spoke to the press.

Suddenly he didn’t need to just keep his seat, but ensure his party won. And he was doing it alone, predominantly. In the previous election, he had been with his wife. But several affairs later, they were separated. Not divorced. She still went to some of his key speeches to put on a facade. At least until he was Prime Minister, they would pretend they were together.

“We’re going backwards, not forwards,” Sally informed him at gone midnight as they sat in front of a map of the UK trying to work out their next targets. “Something isn’t working.”

Greg bit his lip, staring down at the polls. They had gone down by two points in a few days. “Shit. Is there something wrong with our message?”

“I don’t think so. We’re polling strongly on the economy. Strong on the NHS. Weaker on defence, but I think we can change that with a couple of strong days focusing on it.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“It’s you,” another voice said, pushing the door open.

Greg raised his eyebrows, staring up at the kid. Holmes. His black hair still unruly, his coat collar turned up as though that made him look ‘cool’. He was chiselled cheekbones and fiery blue eyes, and Greg thought he was more suited to a catwalk than a political campaign. Especially when he opened his mouth, and proved he was all venom and little charm.

“Get out,” Sally snapped at him. “You are not supposed to be at any of our hotels anymore.”

“Fundraising is boring,” Holmes protested, closing the door and stepping inside. “You’ll never get more money than the opposition so there’s no point trying. And no one wants to give money to me anyway.”

“Get out before I call security, and you don’t work for us ever again,” Sally told him, standing up and reaching for her phone.

But Holmes just looked at Greg, his blue eyes boring into him. “You’re the problem,” he said again. “You shouldn’t be. People like you. They trust you. But you’re not portraying the right message when you speek.”

Greg frowned. “How so?” he asked.

“Sir…” Sally said.

Greg held his hand up. “Just a sec, Sal.” He nodded towards one of the chairs, indicating Holmes took it. He didn’t. Instead he took a few steps closer to Greg, forcing him to lift his head to look up at him. He met his eyes and held them, though it was hard to keep that intense gaze. Sherlock was an electric fence. Tempting to touch, just to see how potent the shock. But you wouldn’t touch, because you’d surely get burned.

“You don’t seem strong on defence because you don’t seem strong as a leader,” Sherlock informed him. “Everyone believes you when it comes to the NHS and education. But if our country was bombed tomorrow? No one trusts you to stand up and be strong. But it can be solved.”

Greg shrugged. “We just need to talk about defence for a few days.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“What am I supposed to do then?” Greg asked.

“You’re so keen to play clean politics, that you don’t realise that you’re getting dirtier every day. The opposition is ripping you to shreds. But you’re still sat in here trying to be nice.”

“I am nice.”

“And therefore not a strong leader. Even your prospective Chancellor is a better bet than you when it comes to strength. The public think he’d get the job done if he were the Prime Minister. But not you.” Holmes held some papers out.

“What’s this?” Greg asked, taking them.

“Opposition research.”

Greg frowned. “I don’t play dirty politics.”

“It’s not dirty,” Holmes said, taking a seat and dragging it across the floor until he was close enough to Greg to be disconcerting. “The opposition claims its defence spending has increased. It has. On paying for repairs on inferior fighter jets rather than investing in new machinery. In repairing barracks which were beyond repair years ago. They’re spending money, but it’s barely papering the cracks.”

Greg frowned. “How do you know this?”

Sherlock flashed him a nonchalant smile. “A simple Freedom of Information query. Easy.”

Greg narrowed his eyes at him before looking down at the papers in his hands. “You want me to leak this?”

Holmes rolled his eyes. “What on earth is wrong with everyone on this stupid, ridiculous campaign!”

“Oi!” Greg snapped at the same moment Sally reached for the phone again.

“What’s the schedule tomorrow?” Holmes asked, turning to Sally.

She pursed her lips but answered anyway. “We’re in Birmingham in the morning. Education is on the agenda, followed by a trip to Nottingham.”

“Cancel everything.”

She laughed. “We can’t just cancel everything. It creates a bad impression.”

Sherlock turned back to Greg. “Cancel everything. All of it. Go to London. Go back to your constituency. There was a terrorist attack there a few years ago, right?”

Greg nodded. “Mmm.”

“Defence,” Holmes told him, pointing at the papers. “You give a speech on defence. The Government is letting our armed forces down. You’ve got all the evidence you need right there. Give it out to the press minutes before your speech, just in time for their deadlines. No smiling. No waving. You need to give a determined, confident performance. Leave the rest to me.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “The rest?”

But Holmes just winked at him, rose from his chair and turned to Sally. “He wears a white shirt tomorrow. And keep his wife away. She sneers every time the cameras are off her, but eventually someone’s going to notice she despises every second she’s in the same room as her husband.” And with that, he marched out, the door slamming closed behind him.

Sally began to laugh. “Oh my God. I’ll call security now.”

“No,” Greg murmured. “No,” he repeated, more certain. “One day. We try it his way, for one day. Wake up Anderson and Dimmock now. I need a speech and press release drafted and I want to read them at 5am tomorrow when I get up.” He handed the papers to Sally. “I mean, Christ. What have we got to lose, right? We need to turn this around and fast.”

‘The rest’ happened to be a few carefully chosen Armed Forces personnel and family members in the audience. Afterwards, some Captain John Watson backed up everything Greg had said about the Government’s failed military defence spending. His interview was played on the BBC, ITV, Sky and Channel 4 for the rest of the day, along with Greg’s speech.

And from that day, Sherlock Holmes hovered around a little bit more. He wasn’t paid anything. He just appeared at the hotels and on the bus, angering people, but proving himself invaluable nonetheless.

And the polling numbers went back up. And up.

Greg tried to keep Sherlock separate from his team because he caused more trouble than it was worth. So when they were on the bus, Sherlock usually stayed at the back with Greg, both working in silence on their laptops. Greg would give media interviews over the phone and Sherlock would occasionally hold up notes saying: “More NHS” or “ask about opposition’s education pledges”.

And if anyone was complaining about the arrangement, Greg didn’t hear of it. One Saturday night, he sat outside of their hotel on a bench, just staring up at the sky, cigarette balanced between his fingers.

He looked up at the sound of footsteps as Sherlock walked towards him. “You should be in bed,” Sherlock said.

“Got distracted.”

“It’s a bit late to be having second thoughts,” Sherlock reminded him, taking a seat on the bench rather than on one of the seats. “There’s only three weeks to go.”

“I know. Just thinking. Maybe I’m more scared of winning than I am of losing. No one would blame me if we lost. I got this job just seven weeks before purdah began. If we lose… it’s not because I did this wrong, it’s because Lady Smallwood’s husband couldn’t keep it in his pants.”

Sherlock snorted, reaching forward to pluck the cigarette packet from Greg’s top pocket. Greg let him. He leaned against the cool wood, frowning. “And if we win I won’t have a big majority.”

“They’ll be glad to have their jobs. They won’t cause you any problems. At least not for the first year or two.”

“I used to cause problems.”

“Yeah, but you were right. The party was a mess. But they were too scared to look at the reasons why.”

“Why do you do this?” Greg asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “Because you all need me. I don’t care about the party. I probably won’t even vote. I’ve never voted.”

“Were you even old enough at the last election?”

Sherlock smirked. “No,” he admitted.

Greg laughed, stumping out his cigarette and passing the lighter to Sherlock to light his own. “So, why me then? If you don’t care about the party and you won’t vote… Why this?”

“I got kicked out of university for cooking drugs in the labs,” Sherlock informed him. “I only avoided prison because my brother has an important job in the Government. I did this or I went to jail.”

“They were your only options?”

“Yep,” Sherlock said, lighting his cigarette. “Admittedly it’s been… better than I expected.” Greg watched as he wrapped his full lips around the cigarette, taking a long inhale before blowing it out into the air.

Greg felt his mouth go dry, watching this crazy gorgeous bastard. He looked back out into the hotel gardens again, watching shadows on the grass.

“Why did you do this?” Sherlock asked.

“Mum was a nurse. Saw her hospital struggle every week with underfunding and ridiculous targets. And then the hospital was threatened with closure. I led the campaign to save it and we won. And then I ran for MP and I got it. I did it all wrong, those first five years. I was that cocky upstart with my head in the clouds thinking I could change the world.”

“Mmm. I know. I’ve watched your old speeches. I would describe you as delusional.”

Greg snorted. “Oi,” he replied, with no malice to it. He smiled and shook his head. “Right, off to bed.” He stood up and collected his cigarettes and lighter. “You staying up?”

“I don’t need sleep,” Sherlock told him, waving him off.

Greg shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He walked back towards the door, looking back over his shoulder to where Sherlock sat on the bench, lit up by the solar lights and the moon. His poisonous words were all gone when they were alone. He looked less certain. A young man full of self-belief on the outside… with something softer underneath. Greg let out a long breath and went inside.

He noticed Sherlock over the next week though. When they sat in staff briefings, Sherlock would stand up by the wall, observing mostly, acting like he was above it all. He would wear his tight purple shirt and black trousers, and run a hand through his black curls, and Greg’s mouth would go dry.

And he felt wrong for it, because Sherlock was in his early 20s and haughty and annoying and all he wanted was to kiss those full lips and bend him over a desk and fuck him. It was wrong, so wrong. And he was in the midst of the most important period of his life, and he couldn’t afford to be distracted by an intern who drove everyone to distraction. By an intern who seemed to understand the opposition’s tactics in a way no one else could.

They were preparing for the leaders’ televised debate. Ninety minutes of a studio audience’s questions, live on the BBC, aired to millions of people.

Greg stood in his dressing room alone. His staff were filling his head with questions and answers and eventually he got sick of the noise and sent them all out. He smoothed his hands over his jacket, frowning.

He spun around as the door open and Sherlock slunk in. It was a white shirt today, and he was temptation personified. The apple on the tree, the ‘one last drink’, the cigarettes Greg always swore to give up.

“You’re ready,” Sherlock informed him, taking a few steps closer.

“Am I?” Greg asked. “My brain’s all over the place, trying to hold all these damned numbers. I need those fact sheets.”

“No. You don’t. Everyone else will be using them. But you won’t. If you don’t have them, you won’t look down at your platform and that means you’ll look in control. We’ve been through this.”

“I don’t think I’m ready.”

“You’re ready,” Sherlock said again. He reached out and straightened Greg’s tie, holding his eyes. Greg had to count down from 10 to stop himself getting hard at just that little bit of contact. He hated to admit he was desperately attracted to him.

Sherlock stepped away from him, smiled, cool and confident, and left him to it.

He didn’t win the leaders’ debate. But he came a close second to the incumbent Prime Minister and that was all he could have hoped for if he was honest. His team were thrilled and they shared a few beers that night. Sherlock excepted. He wasn’t one for that sort of social environment.

Greg wandered into the little kitchen area and poured himself a glass of water. He looked round as Sherlock joined him, moving to stand behind him to lean against the wall. “You did well,” Sherlock murmured, his voice low.

Greg frowned and nodded. “Yeah. It was alright. Cheers. For your help and everything.”

“I know what you want.”

Greg bit back a laugh and turned round, finding Sherlock so much closer than he anticipated. He swallowed and had a long gulp of his ice cold water. “And what’s that?” he managed, leaning against the counter.

Sherlock took a step closer, until he could feel the heat radiating from him. Make out the blues in his eyes, and smell his expensive aftershave. “You want this,” Sherlock breathed out. “Me. And you can have it.”

“I’m married.”

“Technicality,” Sherlock whispered. He smoothed down an invisible crease in Greg’s jacket. “Think about it.” He smiled and walked out, leaving Greg feeling like someone had just tasered him. He downed the rest of his water.

He felt like a dirty old man just for wanting it. Sherlock was trouble, and he knew it. Unrepentant, rude and arrogant, a luxury good, tempting and expensive. He exuded sex from every pore, and made himself unobtainable with every blink, even while he licked his very kissable lips and smoothed down his impossibly tight shirt.

He was titanium surrounding an insecure heart, needing affirmation and praise and encouragement. Like a puppy, wanting, needing, desperate for confirmation. Yet he wouldn’t be taken by the scruff of the neck and trained. He rebelled, he fought, he pushed boundaries and usually he won.

“Shit,” Greg muttered, downing another glass of water before marching to his bedroom and closing the door. He stripped off his clothes and he lay on his back, taking his dick in hand.

He was already hard, the head leaking precome at just the thought of Sherlock’s mouth on his, desperate and needy. Kissing him would be like oxygen. He knew it would be wild, untamed. And he wanted it desperately. He stroked himself roughly, arching up his hips, digging his heels down into the mattress.

He imagined Sherlock, his mouth on Greg’s cock, Greg’s tongue slicking up his hole, getting him ready, making him whimper, making him fucking beg for it.

Sherlock would be steely resolve until he was in bed, then he’d be liquid, pliant, goddamn needy. Greg could imagine him ordering him about, his long legs wrapped around Greg’s waist, his hole clenching around him and all the while he’d mutter ‘fuck me’, in breathy tones, until they came, and it would be messy and oh so wrong.

Greg let out a deep moan as he came over his hand and stomach, images of Sherlock’s own climax in his mind as he did.

He flopped down against the bed, breathing hard. “Oh fuck!” he exclaimed, smacking the bed with his hand. He was furious at himself, for getting caught up in the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. That Sherlock had offered him the invitation at all.

They travelled the full length and breadth of the country. He talked to people in their homes, knocked on doors, gave speeches in town halls and in the streets. He spoke to journalists until his voice was almost hoarse. He felt like a performing monkey. He didn’t even have time to edit his own speeches anymore, he just had to trust that his team were giving him their very best.

Sherlock wasn’t always there but when he was, he was ever-rambunctious and enigmatic. Greg would catch his eye, and Sherlock would smile. Not a lot. Just a little half smile as he stood on the sidelines.

Greg would have to look away. He felt a pull to him. Wanted to know what his body looked like under his shirts, taste his skin, run his nose along his hairline. He was intoxicated.

The final weeks came. His wife went to one of his big speeches. She stood by his side, dignified, with a well-rehearsed proud smile.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she told him as they piled into the bus. “This is ridiculous.”

“Two weeks,” Sally told her. “If we get in… we’ll do the photo opp outside Downing Street. And we’ll sneak you out and…”

“And if a journalist catches me living in Harpenden with my boyfriend, what then?”

Greg sighed and sat down in one of the chairs. “It’s a PR nightmare waiting to happen either way. We can’t win.”

“I’m divorcing you because you work too hard,” his wife said. “It’s difficult to hold a political position and maintain a stable relationship. I think the public will understand that line.”

“Yeah. Just give me a month. We can divorce in a month.”

She nodded and wandered to the back so she could talk to her new boyfriend on the phone. Greg sighed and reached for his own phone, checking his messages.

“You okay, boss?” Sally asked.

“Mmm. Tired.”

“Eight days to go.”

“Yeah. Where’s Sherlock?” he asked, hoping he sounded nonchalant. “Not seen him for a few days.”

“He’s gone ahead with Dimmock to check the next venue for tomorrow.”

“Bloody hell. Are you sure that’s a good idea? They might kill each other.”

Sally smiled. “Have a nap if you can,” she said before going to find her own seat.

He didn’t nap. He beckoned Molly over so she could show him how to use Twitter so he could finally take charge of his own social media account. He read his messages, with people calling him a ‘knob’ and a ‘liar’ and a ‘cunt’ and he wondered why he was even bothering.

“It happens,” Molly told him. “But it’s okay. Everyone gets called a knob on Twitter.”

Greg laughed and shook his head. “Brilliant. That’s brilliant, that is. Well, at least no one can accuse us of not listening to the electorate. Maybe it’s better if you handle this?”

“People expect you to run your own account if you have one, sir.”

“As if I haven’t got enough to worry about. Thanks, Molly. I’ll have a play with this.”

“What’s your first Tweet going to be?”

Greg shrugged. “Eight days to go. We’re the only party with a proper economic message.”

Molly smiled. “Maybe be… less boring? And don’t forget the hashtag.”

Greg groaned and nodded. He began to scroll through the main homepage, frowning when he saw @sherlockholmes come up. He clicked on the man’s profile. It was awash with positive comments about the opposition.

Greg frowned and looked around his bus. There was no way people on his team didn’t know about this. He stood up and held his phone out to Sally. “What the fuck is this?” he asked.

“Hm?” She peered at the screen. “Oh. He works for the opposition.”

Greg stared at him. “He does what?”

“He works for the opposition. He always has. He leaks things to us. It’s how we’re always ahead. It’s why he never watches your speeches.”

Greg shook his head in disbelief. “I… bloody hell." He bent down, trying to stay quiet. "I don’t play dirty politics," he hissed.

“Then you will lose,” Sally told him. “Have a nap. We’ll talk about this later.”

“We’re not talking about this later.”

“Yes, we are,” Sally told him, looking around. “Now is not the time.”

Reluctantly, Greg sunk down in his seat, frowning as he stared out of the window. He knew this happened. That there were leaks and informants, but it wasn’t a game he had ever been willing to play. And he knew now. Why they always seemed to be leading with the messages. Why they were always in the right place, right time.

And it didn’t matter, because the polls were still close, and he’d lost all of his integrity in the process. He didn’t talk to Sally about it in the end. He could barely look at himself in the mirror, knowing what he was doing. But he wanted to win. He knew it was the best option for the country. He felt it. And that gave him the courage to keep going, even though he was disgusted at himself and at his team for allowing Sherlock to be their man on the inside. Leaking things to them, giving them the upper hand. 

A day to go until the polls. His hand was aching from shaking hands. He was sure he was getting a cold. He hadn’t spoken to Sherlock in days.

But he would email Greg notes. Blue suit. Lots of smiling. No smiling. Don’t mention ‘party politics’. ‘Fully-costed’. 

He and his wife went to the polling station together, holding hands, smiling. Her face fell as soon as they were away from the cameras. “Are you even gonna vote for me?” Greg joked as he went into his own booth. The look she shot him made him doubtful.

They emerged holding hands. They waved to the press. He offered a brief statement. Then they were off. Manchester. Leeds. Three London constituencies. An exhausting trail of areas that were too close to call.

And at 10pm, the polls closed. He opened the door to his house. Sally was already there, handing out sandwiches and coffees in the kitchen. Greg grabbed a beer and went to the living room, frowning. He leaned against the back of the sofa, watching the telly. The BBC announced its exit poll. And it was too close to call.

“That’s good,” Sally said, sitting down on the couch. “We pulled it back. We were losing six weeks ago, now it’s too close to call.”

Greg frowned. “Hung Parliament is still possible. When do we start calling the other parties to see if we can form a coalition?”

“Not until later, or we look presumptuous.”

Greg looked up as the door opened and Sherlock walked in. Tension filled the room, but no one said a word. They all knew Sherlock had helped them. He was the black cloud of their campaign. A necessary evil. Vital. He stepped beside Greg, peering at the television.

“I voted today,” he murmured as everyone began talking again.

“Oh yeah?” Greg asked, unsmiling, not looking at him.

“Yeah.”

“For me?”

“Now, now, Mr Lestrade. You’re not supposed to ask that.”

Greg glanced at him. “Don’t even think my own wife voted for me today.”

“Your team will work on damage limitation with your marriage as soon as you get in.”

“If.”

“When,” Sherlock said. He pulled out a scrap piece of paper. “I conducted my own prediction. I’ve got you winning by 13 seats.”

“Don’t get my hopes up.”

“So you do want to win?”

Greg nodded. “Course,” he said. “I should go to bed. I’ve got to get up at 2am to go to the election count and then I’ll need to be awake enough when the final declarations are made.” He had a long swig of his beer.

“Where’s your bathroom?” Sherlock asked.

“Upstairs, second room on the left.”

He patted Sally on the shoulder, shook Anderson's and Dimmock’s hands and then wandered up to his bedroom. He was just closing the door when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He felt his heart begin to race and he didn’t even need to turn round to know who that was.

He stepped away from the door and pulled off his tie. Sherlock walked in and closed the door behind him. Greg turned to him raising his eyebrows. “I’m meant to be going to bed,” Greg reminded him. “To sleep.”

“You look too awake to sleep. You’ll probably lie there for hours. I can wear you out.”

“You always wear me out. Trying to keep up with your head of yours. You’re a fucking liar, you know that?”

“Mmmm. Do you want me to go?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“But?”

Greg stared at him for a moment. “You’re 21.”

“Yeah. 22 next week.”

“I’m married.”

“Technically,” Sherlock said. “You can tell me to go. And I will. But I know you still want me.” He took a step towards Greg. “It’s sex. Nothing more.”

“You work for the opposition.”

Sherlock smirked. He reached out and ran his hands over Greg’s chest over his shirt. “Not after tonight.” He pushed Greg’s jacket from his shoulders, hanging it over the back of a chair.

“Why are you helping me?” Greg asked.

“I see you as the best of a bad lot, nothing more.” Sherlock stepped closer, running his hands down his chest to rest on his belt. “But I can help you sleep tonight,” he murmured. Greg narrowed his eyes. “Don’t have a moral crisis over this. I want you. You want me.” He brushed his lips against Greg’s neck. “You’re always so, so good. Such a good man. Such a good MP. Isn’t it good sometimes to just…” Sherlock lifted his head and looked at him. “Be a little bit bad?”

“I don’t play dirty politics.”

“No. But I do.”

Greg gripped his wrist. “I don’t play dirty politics,” he insisted. Sherlock held his eyes, and they seemed darker somehow, full of desire, longing. “But fuck, you make it so bloody appealing,” Greg breathed out. And then he tugged Sherlock towards him, smashing their lips together. Sherlock let out an undignified moan and Greg pushed him up against the desk, grinding up against him. He grabbed Sherlock’s arse, and Sherlock wound one leg around his, bracing himself against the desk.

Greg kissed him hard, no finesse, just drawing those dirty wet sounds and moans from his mouth. Sherlock sat up on the desk, wrapping his legs around Greg, pulling him close. Greg bit down on his neck. “This is what you wanted all along, isn’t it?” he muttered against Sherlock’s ear.

“God yes,” Sherlock breathed out, unfastening Greg’s shirt. “We’re good together. You’re all good and I’m… this.” He grazed his nails against Greg’s chest, leaving white lines in his wake. Greg bent to kiss him again and Sherlock cupped his cheeks. “Look at me,” Sherlock demanded roughly and Greg did, breathing hard. “You’re too good for this game,” Sherlock told him. “You’re a good man playing in a dirty world. I’m going to keep you clean. Do you trust me?”

“No,” Greg whispered. “No fucking way do I trust you.”

Sherlock bit Greg’s bottom lip, tugging at it before letting go. “Good,” he said. “We’ll make a Prime Minister out of you yet.” And they kissed, more of a battle than seductive. Greg grabbed Sherlock’s arse, yanking him off the desk and carrying him to the bed. He dumped him down on it, covering his body with his own as he rocked his hips down against his.

“You want this?” Greg groaned out, his cock rock hard against Sherlock’s through their trousers.

“God yes,” Sherlock breathed, kissing him harder, his nails dragging along Greg’s back. “God.”

Greg made quick work of unfastening Sherlock’s shirt, pressing kisses down his chest and over his nipples. He bit down hard on one and Sherlock arched up, curling his fingers painfully in Greg’s hair.

“Get out of those clothes,” Greg ordered, sitting up to dispense of his own. Sherlock grinned at him, pulling his trousers and boxers and socks off, dumping them on the floor.

Greg stared at him, mapping his chest with his eyes, solid, firm, young. A sprinkling of hair between his pectoral muscles, his skin flushed. Down to the sparse hair leading from his belly button down to his cock, hard against his stomach.

Greg bent down and licked a wet line along his length, flattening his tongue against the head, holding down Sherlock’s hips as he arched into his touch. He stared down at Sherlock’s cock, a slick, wet line of saliva along it, and Greg felt like some corrupting influence somehow. He was far too gone to say no now. “Look at you,” Greg breathed out, spreading Sherlock’s legs, mouthing at his balls. “Mr fucking know it all and got the answer to every sodding thing.”

Sherlock moaned in response, holding onto Greg’s shoulders. “I do know it all,” he breathed out. “You’re going to run the country. The whole country. And I’m going to be there with you.”

Greg groaned, lifting one of Sherlock’s legs onto his shoulder, running his tongue over his perineum, and then down to his hole. Sherlock shoved his hand into his mouth to keep himself quiet as his hips bucked.

“You like that?” Greg asked, flicking his eyes up to Sherlock’s. “Are you gonna be good for me?”

Sherlock nodded, his body trembling in anticipation.

Greg dipped his head, pressing the tip of his tongue against his entrance before pressing bruising kisses to the inside of his thighs, biting down.

“You think I don’t know what you are, Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, cupping his balls and smiling as Sherlock whimpered, arching up again. “You’re trouble. You’re going to be the absolute death of me.”

And then he returned his attention to his hole, licking wetly against it, in slow circles and then flicking his tongue, probing, pressing. And Sherlock looked wrecked already, a line of sweat down the centre of his chest, his cock leaking as he shook, his thighs tense. But he pushed down towards Greg’s mouth, gripping his hair, holding him in position.

“Oh God,” Sherlock panted out, one hand scrambling in the covers. “Oh… oh…”

Greg palmed his own cock, pushing into his hand as he sucked on Sherlock’s balls, flicking his tongue against them.

Sherlock threw some lube in his direction and Greg opened the packets with shaking hands, coating his fingers. He turned his attention back to Sherlock’s hole, pressing the tip of his tongue inside, before flatting it against him, licking in slow, precise circles.

“Gonna hear you beg,” Greg whispered. “You’re going to tell me you want this.”

“I do, I do,” Sherlock panted, arching up. “Greg… oh…”

Greg lifted his mouth, pressing two slick fingers against Sherlock’s hole. He pushed one inside, curled it, searching out Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock bucked his hips, shoving his hand in his mouth again, whimpering. Greg pulled his finger out and pushed two inside, and Sherlock clawed at his hair and then his shoulder, his nails digging in.

“Look at you,” Greg said, fucking him roughly with his fingers, brushing against his prostate, staring down as his digits disappeared between Sherlock’s legs. “What is this all about for you? Power? Control?”

“Everything,” Sherlock managed, arching up. “Please tell me you’re going to fuck me.”

Greg groaned and bit Sherlock's thigh before pulling his fingers out. “Course I’m gonna fuck you,” he muttered. Sherlock pushed a condom in Greg’s direction and he quickly tore open the foil, sliding it onto his cock. “Not gonna last long at this rate though,” he admitted, the sight of Sherlock a desperate, wanton mess enough to fulfil his fantasies for the rest of the year. “Ride me?”

Sherlock nodded, licking his lips. “Yes,” he whispered. Greg lay down reaching out for Sherlock as he crawled towards him. They kissed, wetly, hotly, and Sherlock settled over him.

Greg tipped his head back as Sherlock’s hand closed around his cock, guiding him into position before pushing himself down. Greg bit down hard on his bottom lip as Sherlock began to take him inside.

Greg looked up at his face, his eyes closed, wet lips open as he pushed down and down, taking every inch of Greg’s prick, surrounding him in tight, perfect heat. He didn’t stop moving until Greg was balls deep inside him, as Greg ran his hands along Sherlock’s thighs, before holding onto his hips.

“Tell me,” Greg said. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this.” Sherlock went to move and Greg hold him steady. Sherlock let out a quiet, desperate whine.

“You’re gonna be loyal, Sherlock,” Greg bit out, staring up at him. “Swear to God. Tell me.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’m yours,” he said. “I’m yours, I’m yours.” He lowered himself down, biting Greg’s bottom lip. “I’m yours, please. Please have me, please…”

And Greg couldn’t control himself anymore. He squeezed Sherlock’s hips and braced his heels against the bed as he rocked his hips up, thrusting hard inside him. Sherlock bit down on Greg’s shoulder, holding in his sounds.

“I’m gonna fuck you on the Cabinet table,” Greg murmured against his neck. “On my desk. I’m going to take you apart with my mouth and I’m going to have you over and over and over. Is that what you want?”

“Yes… oh, please, please, I want you…”

Greg began to thrust hard up into him, biting down hard on his lip to stay quiet, until all he could hear was the slapping of skin on skin, Sherlock’s desperate pants against his shoulder. He wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s cock, stroking him hard, roughly.

He felt Sherlock’s balls draw up and then he was coming, spurts over Greg’s stomach and chest. Greg thrust up once more, his thighs tensing as he let go, going still as he came. Sherlock collapsed onto him and he wrapped his arms around him as his cock slipped out.

He closed his eyes as he caught his breath, both their bodies slick with sweat and Sherlock’s come smeared between them. So dirty. So good, right. Sherlock was a trembling mess, grasping onto Greg’s shoulder, then his arm, then his his shoulder again. Greg sat up into a sitting position, holding Sherlock in his lap as he reached for the tissues to try to clean them off.

“It’s alright,” he whispered against Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock nodded, pressing their foreheads together. “Do you want me?” he asked, his eyes wide. He looked high, even while he looked thoroughly debauched. “Do you? Will you?”

Greg kissed him, a long bruising kiss, even though his lips were tender from their earlier kisses. “I want you,” he said. “Fuck, I want you so much.”

Sherlock went limp in his arms, and Greg held him, cradling him, stroking back his hair from his damp forehead. They fell asleep, and when they awoke, it was time to leave.

They dressed, not saying a word. Greg patted him on the back and jogged downstairs to where his Sally was alone, packing up to leave. “How we looking?” Greg asked.

“On course so far,” Sally said. “We won those two London seats we weren’t expecting. So far, we reckon we’ll win by 13 seats.”

“Told you so,” Sherlock murmured.

Greg rolled his eyes and led the way to the cars. They arrived at the town hall, where Anderson and Dimmock were walking around the tables where the count was taking place.

“They expect to call it in 20 minutes,” Anderson told them. “For you.”

Greg nodded. “Then it’s just a matter of waiting for the other results.”

He won his constituency, as they knew he would. He gave a speech on economic recovery. On changing the face of the NHS. On making education a top priority.

And 12 hours later, he reached Downing Street, the newly elected Prime Minister. He stepped out of the car, holding his wife’s hand, waving as they greeted the waiting press. He stepped inside and closed the door. His wife let go of his hand and he closed his eyes, relieved to get away from the clicking cameras.

Sally smiled at him. “Welcome to Downing Street, sir,” she said.

A slow smile spread over Greg’s face. He looked up the long corridor to where Sherlock stood, leaning against a table, probably some expensive, antique thing he had no right to be almost sitting on.

Greg strode over to him, holding his eyes. Sherlock was trouble. Illicit, dirty, all the things about politics Greg despised. “Are you with me?” Greg asked him.

Sherlock smiled and stood up straight. “Do you even need to ask?”

Greg looked around the corridor. “Welcome to Downing Street, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes, Mr Prime Minister,” Sherlock replied, with a smirk on his face. "You too." 


End file.
